9/22-10/9/09: Santa Fe- "Unpacking"

After a quiet day at home on Tuesday, the house-sitting gig started Wednesday amid wild anticipation of spending the entire week on the computer or buried in my notebooks writing for hours on end. I knew that I had much to process and, as always upon returning home, felt highly motivated to get it done immediately in supposed marathon sessions. But, as usual, it didn't happen that way. Rather than a narrative, the writing promptly displayed a tendency to create more questions; deeper layers than I originally assumed were there. That's always a good sign for me personally, but not always pleasant. Especially when many of the hardest new questions revolve around...me.

As I started to get near the heart of Andre's story, I noticed an intense feeling of personal wariness, especially about that Sunday, 9/13. The apprehension's intensity was quite rare, but I understood that his was no ordinary story and I was forced by its content to take a microscopic look at both my own insights and, more painfully, who I have become over the last year and where I was going. I had expected the simple moral question about how much detail to share, but the demand for self-analysis was something that was surprisingly bitch-slapping me at the same time! If I was going to offer acute criticism of others, I was going to be providing it to myself. Like it or not. A handy, oft-inconvenient & unpredictable tool I've acquired somewhere.

As I started to verbally spew into the computer, making connections to both past events and those in Port Townsend, an interesting contrast developed; something that would ultimately lay the very foundation for the immediate future. Despite the persistent questions, the words flowed; again a good sign. Nothing was forced or contrived and, after questioning, challenging, and examining my insights, it was obvious that they were solid-if not pleasant. They themselves then began spawning other multilayer ideas. Yet, the potentially toxic, uncomfortable nature of these observations set off warning signals throughout my psyche. Was this just my ego going nuts?

I began seeking out other opinions and through conversations with Laina, Chris and The Sage, my impressive, redneck vocabulary again went on display as I described these intense, nagging emotions as "feeling like a dick," even though I felt like I was dead-on, even after psychologically beating the hell out of myself and beginning the process of asking "who the hell I thought I was" in writing these things. It was then that I came to realize that I'd had the sense that "I" wasn't writing these things. It was Stream of Consciousness-despite of myself! More than once, I (again) thought back to Randleman, and Pastor Snake...which REALLY set off ego-alarms! Seeing this was encouraging of course, but created more turmoil than it relieved.

The Sage suggested something that I had considered a few times: keeping two journals. One: the run-of-the-mill, fluffy "travel journal" variety. Something easier to comprehend, accept, and escape within (my description). The Second: one presumably written with my actual thoughts... therefore not causing any immediate discomfort to the protagonists. I seriously considered it, but not for long, as I slowly came to realize that the self-doubt wasn't internally based. It was the "critic's" voice; the self- censor voicing the imagined criticism of others. Furthermore, as Laina astutely and repeatedly pointed out, "editing for comfort" would be selling out; doing the very thing that I swore not to do. Reading these passages is voluntary after all, and the notion of producing shallow "bathroom fodder," as Chris puts it, is repugnant. No, this is by its nature occasionally unpleasant and very difficult. It's the "hard" that makes it worthwhile, even though it's sometimes unflattering, even to myself.

I knew coming in that it would periodically be difficult, but I HAVE made myself accountable by having the courage to present it for consumption. It seems cowardly (and suspicious) to consider yourself a man-of-purpose then hide in your journal; the foundation of critical thought is to test ideas by allowing them to stand up to scrutiny! To cower, or worse: put on an "act", would be something I wouldn't be able to stomach, and that I even considered it made me question my own motives and presented the entrance to yet another powerful investigation: the difference between being "clever" and being right, which can lead to the egoistic practice of selfishly protecting a possible flawed point-of-view through linguistic voodoo & rationalization. Later in October, this directly led to my humble, uncomfortable Don Quixote revelation (stay tuned...if you dare!). Good, organic stuff!

With the end of the house-sitting gig came the end of September. As October began and I returned home, my "internal motives" question persisted, but I decided to push forward and allow people to react however they chose. Thinking back over the summer, I reflected on how I had likely severed the pathetic "relationship" with my own father and two of my sisters through simple uncomforatable honesty. Considering that The Hens had chosen to "de-friend" me on Facebook, choosing their traditional method of conflict resolution, avoidance, it suddenly seemed absurd to offer this blatantly self-interest-driven courtesy to Andre; something I had denied much more significant people!

There was much more to come as I contemplated my time with Andre in Portland. As I finally wrote up The Vanity Plate, Now What?, and Navigating the Rubicon, more agitation and an accompanying flood of ideas that was the byproduct. Surprisingly, much if centered around, of all things, The Bible...

6/29-7/2/09: Sit Down & Shut Up

Sunday night around the fire was profound. Chris and I had discussed several times how difficult it is to grasp the concept that we as individuals are NOT the center of the entire universe, despite the fact that our eyes make it seem we are! When serendipity or "fate" is discussed, it's often from the perspective that these events only involve or happen to us, or because of us. That's the ego at work, and oftentimes we forget the obvious fact that others also make decisions and live their lives, thereby affecting the paths presented to us. Their application of freewill sometimes requires us to simply sit still until they play things out. With my ever evolving mastery if the English language, I describe it as being put in a state of limbo and told to "Sit the fuck down, and shut the fuck up!" Ever the wordsmith, I.

If you're unable to let go of the ego's need for control, this limbo it will feel like confusion; you'll be unclear about which path to take. There's a simple explanation for that: It hasn't been decided yet, or you're waiting for someone else on the path to come to you. There have been several examples of this, both this year and last, with the most dramatic this year being with the Church Lady the day Chris's mom decided not to pick us up in New Jersey. Last year's preeminent examples were in McCammon, ID and Randleman, NC. Chris and I have talked at length about it, but it has been one of the most difficult lessons because it requires continuous neutering of the pesky ego: a practice in patience. Sunday, we remembered it and decided to put it to the test. We resolved to sit still and let things happen, while eagerly anticipating Wednesday to see if some dramatic event would unfold. That's exactly what we did.

Monday was spent playing softball one last time, and again sitting around a small campfire chatting. Tuesday was even less eventful, except for yet another campfire. The conversations on these days, however, were quite enlightening. This was a time for us to both reflect back on the past 3-months, and begin to finally grasp exactly what we had experienced as a whole, AND to apply some lessons and ideas as we move forward. Ideas about the next phase became a bit more clear as we chatted about Denver, Santa Fe, Boise, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, England, and even Mexico. Most significantly, we decided to tell someone about this revelation on Sunday. We told Bob we were going to sit tight until Wednesday, thinking something significant was going to happen. If nothing happened Wednesday, Bob would drop us off in Indiana either Wednesday night or Thursday morning. All that was left was to see if it did...

Did it ever.

My brother Mike responded to that 10-day old Facebook request. I immediately sent him an email telling him that I was planning on leaving VERY soon, but that if he was interested I'd love to meet him and would arrange my "schedule" around it. Shit, that's WHY I'm here, after all! He replied that night and said he was definitely interested in getting together before we left, but needed to find out if he was getting a three day weekend for July 4th. If so, we could get together Friday. He wouldn't know until the next day, but after chatting for an hour or so on Yahoo, it was clear that I was going nowhere just yet-even if I needed to wait thru the weekend.

I really liked Mike. Through our little online chat, he and I traded a few stories as we began the now-familiar process of comparing notes, and hitting it off quite well. His reminded me of the response I had gotten from my cousin, Dewey, when he first found out I was related to him. This was NOT the Mike I expected, although to be fair, he's also easily the sibling I knew the LEAST about. I got his number, and made arrangements to call him Thursday night to see about Friday. I immediately called Shelly to let her know what had happened, and of course she was thrilled.

Thursday was understandably a bit restless. I devised a scheme where we could possibly meet Mike in Coldwater rather than Hillsdale on Friday, and would ask if he could drop us off in Angola, IN where I-80/90 comes through. If Mike couldn't make it, perhaps Bob would get us there instead. Either way, we could get on the road Friday.

I finally drafted the email to my father, which I had mysteriously been putting off four four days. I laid out the time line of events, and exactly who I had been in contact with and for how long. In it, I could now also tell him that Mike and I were in touch, and possibly getting together. I hoped that this email didn't reverberate too much, but at least it was the truth. At least now people may be able to speak freely, if they choose to. That can't be a bad thing, and neither can the man knowing who stands where. I sent copies to Shelly and Lynn, and decided to let Mike know when he called. After this, all there was to do was prepare to leave and wait for 7pm to roll around.

Mike did indeed get the day off. Friday was a go. I was stoked. I've never had a brother and I was about to meet one...and apparently a very cool one at that. We had a nice chat on the phone, and he liked the Coldwater/Angola idea. He asked if he could bring his daughter, Ally, and her mother with him so that they could all go fireworks shopping, since they were going to be in Angola. Another niece? Hell, yeah!

Thursday night was a going away party of sorts. We had another fire in Bob's yard, and drank a whole lotta beer. Ian and Travis hung out for a bit, as did Bob's neighbors. No phones were sacrificed, so it was a good night, yet it was obvious that I was ready to go. Somewhere around midnight I mentally checked out of Hillsdale. Unfortunately, I didn't check into bed until 4:30!

8/24/08: Greensboro, NC-Stalked!

It was a long process finding a place to camp. After walking back to the main road I was trying to decide between three different spots when from the woods, I spied a car driving by-- very slowly. This woods was between the two ramps leading to 220, and the car proceeded to stop just before the entrance to the southbound lane. I was on the phone with Laina, and slowly crept out of the woods to see what he was doing, thinking at first that he had somehow seen me. The car just sat there, lights on, for about 10 minutes. No activity that I could see or hear, so I figured he was lost or waiting for someone.

I hung up and continued to go about my business when another car drove slowly by; slow enough for me to see in the limited light that it was the Sheriff. I dove for cover then, when I realized that he was pulling in behind the mystery car, I crept closer to play the role of spectator thinking that I may see some high- drama from the woods. This was weird, not your typical stealth- camping experience!

I watched as the cop cautiously approached the driver’s side of the car, and spoke with the driver for what seemed like eternity. Odd. Cops are generally to- the- point and it went on so long that I re-entered the woods and decided where I was going to sleep for the night while periodically peering out to check in. Cars would drive past regularly, yet still no flashing lights.

Just as I was getting ready to set up, I heard voices. Even from the woods, it was obvious that the cop was giving him a sobriety test. It was Saturday night; “typical” I thought. Just as I went back into the woods, the lights came on- scaring the hell out of me. The cop was back standing at the driver’s side door indicating the operator was back inside. This, again, went on for what seemed like forever. I just wanted them to leave so I could stealth in peace!

By now, I had gotten used to the scenario, so I went a bit deeper into the woods to be certain of avoiding detection. Just as I removed the bivy from the backpack, I heard a car start and take off—fast. I assumed it was the cop, but as I hunched back toward the road, I saw the other car FLY past me, heading east toward Randleman. Then, I heard the cop-approaching, siren blaring. Hot Pursuit! The driver had gone loco, and was trying to escape! I had visions that I would see the drunk (I presumed) crash and burn, but no such luck. The chase went directly past the intersection and through the red light that led to Walmart, and into downtown Randleman. I sat by the road and listened to the siren for quite awhile. First to the north of town; then south. This chase was obviously dramatic. I could still hear the siren fading off to the south as I climbed into the bivy at about 2am, laughing at this day! I never learned anything else about the chase, and thankfully saw no more of law enforcement.

I slept quite nicely after that, in what I thought was a very secluded area beneath some pines. When I awoke Sunday morning at about 10:00, I was shocked to see that I was actually in plain sight. Under the cover of darkness I was fine, but only 75 feet off the road, and the pines had less coverage than I thought. It was too late to stress it and I figured that everyone was either sleeping one off or in church.

I thought I had been prepared the night before, bringing extra water so I would not have to walk back toward Walmart and restock first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, I had lost the Gatorade bottle searching for the spot, and since it was already hot…back to civilization I went, loading up on water and on- special Gatorade figuring that it was going to be a long day just sitting.

I began to contemplate the wisdom of continuing to hitchhike after the experiences of the past two- days, and the results I had seen from walking. I knew Old 220 went all the way to Greensboro or, with some creative navigating, could take me around it to I-40 skirting the city all together. Again, I could not bare the idea of walking back to where I had just come from, so I settled for another day of hitching hoping that with some luck I could get into Greensboro early, swing another ride OUT of the city, and get through Raleigh.

This ramp was much better than the others in North Carolina. It was long, wide, and had a natural pull- out for people to use if they took pity on me sweating in the sun. Just as the last two days, I laid out on the pack, strapped on the headphones, and prepared to wait all day. I knew that I had NEVER gone a day without at least ONE ride, so I was relatively certain I would see Greensboro again by day’s end.

I sat on the ramp for 3-4 hours, only moving to heed Nature’s Call, or stand to awaken my sleeping--posterior. As I was returning from a nature break, a rickety old van pulled over and a woman who looked to be in her mid 50’s jumped out and asked if I needed a ride. “Hell yeah!” I said, trying to seem “confederate”. It is rare for a single woman to stop, and I was glad that I did not look threatening enough to scare her away! As I recall, this was only the fourth woman to pick me up, and the first since the bus stop in Portland.

Jo opened up the rear doors, and warned me to be careful as I loaded the backpack because she was charging a car battery back there. Something I had never seen before. Jo seemed outgoing, and a bit odd. She resembled a few aging hippies I have met; the original ones that I respect. I immediately liked her, and we began a vigorous, mostly one- sided conversation immediately after I settled in the van. Stop me if this story- line seems familiar…

Jo was nearly 60, and a few years back had a stroke. And guess what. She had been fighting health insurance companies, the state, former employers… you have heard this before, right? I laughed aloud, shook my head, and told her that she would be amazed at the number of people I had run into with similar story lines. The insurance companies and the State had essentially thrown her away after the stroke, despite the fact that she had lost use of the left side of her body, the ability to speak, and much of her short- term memory. However, Jo was different. Jo was old school. Jo had lived through the 60’s, and on the right side of them. Jo had never sold out. Jo was a fighter.

She told me about rehab, regaining use of her left- side, and re-learning how to talk. She told of how during all of this, the insurance companies were doing everything they could to avoid pay outs, and that North Carolina wanted no part of her disability claim, nor could she get assistance. Human Kapital.

Apparently, Jo had been quite the little radical in her day, and still was. Sufficiently recovered, she began berating the health- care officials, local media outlets, and anyone else who would listen to her story—thereby creating quite a stir, and negative publicity for the state and her insurance providers. So much so, that the local officials had told her that if she did not ‘shut up or move’ they were going to ‘destroy’ her. She told them exactly where they could take their threats and publicized them. Eventually, and I believe it was with a change in administrations, the state issues were resolved. She got limited assistance.

I was now in love with Jo.

She apparently has spoken out against more than just the corrupt healthcare system. She has radical viewpoints that make me look like Reagan. She told of how before the stroke, she was involved in ‘Economics’, and that in 1997 she had seen indications that the country was on thin economic- ice, only to be rescued by the dot coms. Then in 2000 the same thing was happening and that without a major influx of something, the country would go bankrupt. She pointed out that in 2000, PNAC had long since begun planning the Iraq invasion, and of course the next year: 9/11 and the ratcheting up of the famous Military Industrial Complex, conveniently generating untold billions in corporate revenues. She is convinced that the World Trade Center was the 21st Century Reichstag Fire, and has been outspoken enough for the CIA to add her to their “Dissenter List”. Quite an honor! She even told how she found out about that; losing her mail or having it delivered weeks late, then a friend working for the Postal Service informing her that it was due to the government snooping through her stuff. That’s our Patriot Act; protecting us from 60-year old stroke victims!

Amerika!!

Interestingly, she was also one of the few liberals I have met who have a strong religious conviction…as the theme of religion continues. She spoke about that “Splinter”, the “Calling” (all unprovoked), and said she stopped because she sensed that I was on a "Mission from God." I left it there; I had had enough God for 24- hours. Nevertheless, the prevalence of southern religion, even amongst the heathens, struck me. This ride lasted only thirty minutes, and I did not do a lot of talking. In Greensboro, she gave me her phone number and invited me, not just to call, but stay with her whenever I was in the area. What an interesting person, and seemingly as emphasis to her memory loss, she almost left before I could get my backpack out of her van!

Jo dropped me off on the south side of Greensboro, at what they call the “spider web”, or “black hole”; I forget now, but something denoting that this is where all major highways converge. And, it was Randleman Rd./Old 220— the same road I had considered walking.

I was not exactly pleased with this spot.

It was perhaps the most urbanized setting to date, and it was nearing 4:00. It reminded me of Boise, and I tried to encourage myself with a reminder that I had been out of Boise in 20-minutes. I sat down beneath a tree at the Shell station where Jo had left me, and looked at the Atlas. In the two days, since Francesco had picked me up, I had progressed two miles. Sobering.

I was directly across from the ramp leading to I-40 east, so I crossed the street and assumed the position: lying against the pack with headphones blaring. I was encouraged because the traffic volume was extremely high and consistent. I was however in the ghetto; there were a portion of Greensboro’s projects directly next to me along the frontage road, and I was a point of curiosity. This made me a bit uneasy, not so much that I was there, but that I was attracting silent attention. Shortly after I arrived, a ragged woman joined me on the ramp, thumb in the air, shouting something to no one in particular. She kept rambling as she continued right past me, down the ramp, and on to the I-40 shoulder, her thumb still waving.

I was optimistic I would get out of there if I exercised some patience, so there I sat…and sat…and sat. I must have been quite the spectacle. A middle-age man in a Geo Tracker gave me short- lived hope at about 7:30 by stopping, but rather than offering a ride, said that he “wanted to take my picture, because I was the most relaxed looking hitchhiker he had ever seen! Bwaaaahahahaha!” I let him; he left.

Dick.

At different times, I thought about following my crackhead contemporary in walking the grass next to the highway, if only to get a change of locales. The projects next door were beginning to be abuzz with life as dusk approached, and although they never said anything, it was apparent I was attracting more attention still. On the verge of moving, I remembered the ill-advised attempt Friday, and decided against it. That was a mistake.

Soon, the vibe turned VERY negative. As the sun fell, the looks from the almost exclusively black motorists went from curiosity and indifference, to something else. Then rather than ignoring me or just gawking, they began to get interactive. Cars actually began swerving toward me in an effort to spook me and force me to jump out of the way. I sat there like a stone, never flinching. I had seen this once or twice before and had come to half-expect it occasionally, but this was just different; ominous. It was not a time to sing Kumbaya, and mentally extol the merits of well-intentioned man. It was high time to get the hell out of there. There is a line between adventure, courage, faith, and naive, foolish, idiocy, and everything in my being told me I had crossed it. So, it was back to the Shell station for water and directions to the next exit.

It was now about 8:45, and almost completely dark. When I got to Shell, I was surprised to discover the doors already locked, and the cashier closing out his register. The store had closed before 9:00, even though the sign on the door said they were open until 10. I wondered why a Shell, right off I-40 in Greensboro, would close AT ALL, let alone 10…or NOT EVEN 10. Not all was lost though, as I looked around, I did see what seemed to be promising places to camp close to the interstate. I sat down leaning against the wall facing Randleman Rd., plugged in the phone, dug out the Atlas, and prepared for the employee to shoo me away when he left. Then the plan was to explore the ramp for places to sleep.

After sitting there for about ten minutes, I looked up to see five people crossing Randleman Rd., coming from the projects toward the Shell. As they crossed the median, they went in slightly different directions, spreading out a bit going toward different parts of the parking lot. One of them kept shifting their eyes from me, to the side of the store, to his left, right, then back—directly—to me. The others actively searching, but looking everywhere but at me--AVOIDING looking at me. They all looked to be relatively young, skinny, and hip- hopped out with the full, latest ensembles delivered directly from Stereotypical Ghetto Garb, LLC.

There was no conscious decision needed. I calmly, but quickly, unplugged the phone, shoved it in my pocket, and in the same motion, put the pack on and began walking toward the north end of the parking lot, directly in front of two of them, (neither of which were very large), and generally away from the others. That was the moment I knew I was not “just being paranoid.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other three abruptly change course, toward me, while these two were sizing me up. They never said a word, and didn’t need to. I had no idea what they were after, but I was relatively sure I had just strapped it to my back. My knife was right there on my shoulder-strap, but what would that do against five? Other than perhaps find its way into my own gut? In a split- second, I realized that this was the FIRST time I had been in any real danger.

Then a stroke of luck. Two cars pulled in, both loaded with guys from Virginia. I needed friends at that moment, so I politely told them they might not be able to get gas because the station had closed early, hoping to start a conversation and open a window of escape. This temporarily stalled and apparently confused the Welcoming Committee. Apparently unable to improvise, they all began to congregate together on the far (south) side of the parking lot, leaving the north side open for me to get out of there. That is exactly what I did. I crossed over Randleman Rd. to the raised median and walked a short distance down the middle of this temporary divide. I then crossed the rest of the way over, to the east side of Randleman Rd. I looked back, and saw all five Committee Members following a measured, yet uncomfortably close distance behind me; maybe 75ft. I picked up the pace, thanking God that I had lightened the pack, and crossed over I-40. When I got to the other side and looked back, they were gone. I had no idea where, nor did I care. Just gone. Now what? I went in to a well-placed (for me!) BP station to catch my breath, grab a Coke, and process what had just happened.

Oddly enough, I would not define any of what I felt as “fear”. The decision to leave the Shell was instantaneous; instinct. The rest was adrenaline, a sharpening of senses & quickening of thought, and almost literally involuntary action.

The reality did not really set in until I got to the BP. I quickly began to realize the gravity of the situation, and realized that if I was not VERY smart about the next few moments I could have real problems. I needed to either find a place to get out of sight, or get the hell out of this area.

A quick survey showed that, on this side of I-40, there was nothing. There was nowhere suitable to hide for the night, and I had cut off my known escape route by crossing I-40. I looked up Randleman Rd. and saw nothing appealing, but by now, my survival instincts were in overdrive. Not the paranoid  ‘instincts’ I'd had in Rawlins, Wyoming mind you; real ones! I was estimating everything—buildings, cars, semi- trailers, houses, yards, trees—anything I could use as shelter. However, those survival instincts also told me that my young stalker friends knew the area, and since I had no idea where they had gone, they could be watching me even then, waiting for me to make a move. Paranoia? Maybe. Justified in this case? You bet.

It was becoming painfully obvious as I was at this ghetto BP that I was in a bind. If I left this sanctuary, I had no idea what I would find; knowing nothing of the area other than what street the bus station was on. Like quicksand I realized, desperate, unmeasured, and irrational action could make things much worse. It was now shortly after 9, and this BP closed at 10. Fortunately, I had a 45- 50 minute haven where I could think.

Conclusion?

I’d had enough of Greensboro. Enough of North Carolina. To hell with the Atlantic Ocean. It was reminding me of Ft. Morgan, where just getting to Nebraska was bordering on impossible. The difference being that, in Colorado, it was Mother Nature (tornadoes) seemingly blocking my path, rather than roving bands of Ghetto Kings. I already had the bus information, thanks to Friday’s drama, and knew I was relatively close to the terminal. I called Laina again to tell her about this little adventure and to try to get some perspective.

Her assessment: “You need to get the fuck out of there!”

I agreed. We discussed the ticket, and since I still had the $20 Will had given me the night before (forgot to mention that, didn’t I?), I had cash for a Taxi if I needed one.

The attendant inside was very helpful. I asked him how far it was downtown, and when he told me it would take a couple hours to walk, I asked how much the taxis would charge to get me down there. He said he could not imagine it being more than $10, so I borrowed the phone book, wrote down the number, and thanked him. We then chatted for a few minutes about the trip, as he was intrigued by where I had been, and how far to this point. I left what had just happened off my list of anecdotes. I am not sure why, other than it was the ONLY example of its kind, and it seemed like a shame to bring it up. When he asked me why I was taking the bus, I again ignored the obvious, in favor of “I’m just tired.” Not entirely a lie.

The clerk had to get busy closing, so I went outside and on a whim decided to give calls to Ken & Cesar, on the off chances that they may be in the region. A slim chance, but it was a slim chance when I called Ken from Denver the last time. I had really hoped that I could get a hold of Ken. He had made an offhanded comment on the way to Nashville that if I ever got a ticket to Tampa, I could hang out, and perhaps ride out with him. Not only would I get to see Tampa, but also the trip would continue, and the ticket would cost less than Albuquerque would! I got voice mails for both of them, so called the taxi and after 20 minutes, it came and took me downtown to Greyhound, costing me $10 even.

As I got to the desk, and began pricing different locations (Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Denver, etc.), Ken called back. Good timing! I quickly gave him the rundown, and said that if the offer was legit, I could come to Tampa and see what happened. Ken said that he was actually planning to leave the next (Monday) morning so would be long gone by the time the bus got there. He suggested instead that I go to Atlanta, where he was almost certain he would be picking up his usual load, and then heading somewhere that he would learn early Monday morning. 

Perfect! I could get the same bus out of Greensboro tonight, get to Atlanta at 7am, meet up with Ken, and then ride off to Parts Unknown and perhaps continue this little adventure, with another fun, spontaneous little wrinkle in it! At the very least, I figured I could ride back toward Denver, and if that was were where I wound up, the ticket home would be a fraction of the cost. The only slight reservation I had was, what if something happened the next day, and he DID NOT pick up in Atlanta? Atlanta is not a good place to be stuck, although if I were stuck it would be at the terminal, or a truck stop. I was taking a slight risk, but the odds were heavily in my favor.

After getting some vague directions from Ken on where to meet him, I bought the $71 ticket from Greensboro to Atlanta and left at 11:40pm. I was happy that I had gotten a hold of Ken and was not just heading to New Mexico, although a significant part of me just wanted to relax, and begin to process everything that has happened over the last three months, which was daunting! 

Nevertheless, with September fast approaching, and with it yet another 29th birthday, I concluded I had better keep going; make use of the time I have this summer. Again, I was astounded at the progression of the day: I had woken up in woods near Randleman, North Carolina hoping to get, finally, back to Greensboro then to Raleigh and toward the Outer Banks. 12 hours later? I was was aimed toward Atlanta.

Whudathunkit?

The ride to Atlanta? Other than stopping in Charlotte, the driver being half-crazed, the bus being over packed, riding through Hurricane Fay’s remnants, and the door flying open in the middle of the night? Uneventful. Typical “Dirty Dog”. I dozed off half-hoping Ken would not show up, so I could follow Sherman’s March to Savannah, and stick my smelly feet in that damn ocean just to spite it.

In the end, these events in Greensboro did not faze me much. Ultimately, they were my own fault. I have purposely avoided urban centers for exactly this reason. I never conferred with Jo when it could have mattered, and that is no one’s fault but mine. In Colorado, Wyoming, California, Oregon, and most of Idaho, I was VERY good about this, but after pulling off my “urban stealthing stunt” in Pocatello, then getting lucky with the location in Winston-Salem, I lost sight of common sense.

Secondly, I lingered there long after I realized the setting could get dicey; long enough to where it was too late. I relied, again, too much on getting a ride, and should have simply walked out. There is a reason that this was the only significant danger I have ever found myself in on this journey, with the exception, some would say, of the freight train. It is telling that it was due to a failure of discipline and common sense.

8/23/08: Asheboro & Randleman, NC-The Lord's Bikers

The bivy performed like a champ. It was warm, spider-free, and allowed me to leave the sleeping bag packed. I awoke Saturday morning at the usual time of 8:30, but decided I was going to take advantage of the perfect spot and catch up on sleep. I attributed much of Friday’s ‘pissiness’ to fatigue, so stayed in bivy until 11. It was great. I would need it.

It took awhile for me to mobilize after sleeping so long, but after some cold instant coffee…a disgusting Todd Staple… I packed up and mentally steeled myself for a day likely spent sitting on my butt at the same gas station unable to get out of Asheboro. The on-ramp was no good because of North Carolina’s aversion to shoulders.

I climbed out of the palmettos, or whatever they were, and walked back to the gas station, to the wonderment of Saturday’s traffic. I’ve never grown tired of the looks of amazement when people see me walking places usually reserved for cars. I bought some real coffee, sat down where the driveway and road met--far enough back so as not to attract unwanted attention from Rosco, Cooter or the rest of Boss Hogg’s Band of Merry Morons.

I kept picturing Rosco morphing into Sgt. Schultz the night before: *I hear NOTHHHINNNNG!*

I put on the headphones and there I sat for most of the day. There was an occasional trip inside for coffee, water, and cigarettes, but the day was playing out as expected. It was hot too; low 90’s with the sun blazing, but somewhere along the way I had come to enjoy sitting in the sun. Thankfully, I had brought my old stupid looking army surplus Desert Storm hat so my baldhead was not scorching.

The thought began to occur that I should consider alternate routes out of Asheboro and toward the coast. I had time to study the atlas, and began tinkering with the idea of going SOUTH on US-220/I-74. The Outer Banks had long lost its charm and, honestly, I couldn't have cared less about WHERE I stuck my damn foot in the damn Atlantic anymore! The trouble with rolling south from Asheboro was that it would take me into one of the most rural parts of North Carolina and, since I was feeling like the Happy Hitcher, that did not appeal. 

It was then that I learned that there was ‘old’ US-220 running parallel to 220 back north to Greensboro. This road would take me directly back into Randleman and toward I-40 if I wanted to walk. Had I sat much longer, that is exactly what I would have done.

Hurricane Fay was something to consider as well. The weather forecasts were for a great deal of rain from yet another system on Monday and there was talk that Fay could make her slow-moving way into the Carolinas after she made landfall on the Gulf Coast. Insanely perhaps, this motivated me to get there! I still have an unnatural urge to ride out a hurricane and would definitely do a tropical storm in a good tent or a bivy. Just to do it. There was still too much uncertainty about the track of the storm but it would be hard to ride out a tropical storm hitting the coast sitting in ASHEBORO!

As the day wore on, I was content either waiting for a ride or walking. It did not really matter to me and at about 3:30, as I was preparing to hoof it, a red pickup truck pulled up next to me and asked if I was hungry.

Hungry? Really?

Most of the time when people asked if I needed money or food, it depended on the situation as to whether I would accept. My ride from Winston-Salem to Greensboro asked if I needed cash and I politely turned it down because, well, I really didn't and I hoped that would help to kill the freeloader stereotype in some small way. When Skeeter asked, (I’m not joking this time! That was his name! Cooter's cousin?) I was on the verge of saying no again but when he said that there was a barbeque going on and that they would have no problem with me joining I decided to accept. I needed real human interaction and this seemed like a possible gateway to adventure. Besides, it beat talking to the phone booth. One I'd already named Phil.

As we were leaving, Skeeter looked at me and asked if I was homeless. This took me slightly aback, because NEVER had anyone asked up to this point. "Nope", I said wondering if I smelled like pee. He then gave me a look I will never forget. Either disappointment or anger! He actually hoped I WAS homeless! It would make perfect sense two minutes later. Skeeter asked me where I was headed. When I answered, "anywhere along the coast", he added that there were a lot of people who had come in from the coast for this ‘cookout’ and that I may be able to find a lift with one of them. I would later learn that to be a crock but, for now, this looked promising.

Skeeter (I love that name) pulled into a parking lot loaded with Harleys. There was a band onstage playing different versions of 'Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door', a dunk tank, lots of tables, and dozens of people milling about. 

It immediately became clear why Skeeter had stopped & why he was so disappointed I had a home: It was a church gathering. He was hoping to bring a hungry stray to the flock so they could feed and then save him!  

I dropped my backpack beneath a tree and, oddly, felt like I was doing a remote broadcast for a radio station. The moment the station arrives, if there is a crowd gathered they fawn over whomever exits the vehicle. 

Several of the parishioners went out of their way to introduce themselves and welcome me asking where I was headed and where I’d come from. When I told them I was from New Mexico, had gone up the Pacific Coast, hopped a freight train, then hitchhiked from Idaho, they, to a man, returned a look of horror!

“Man, you’s gots ta be careful out there! There’s some crazies who will kills ya! Weren’t you worried ‘bout that?” 

These were Christians. Obviously very devoted to their religion, the word of ‘God’, Jesus; Peace on (White) Earth. All that. Yet they were utterly terrified of people. I was mildly surprised as to the extent, but not completely. This fed into my views of religion up to this point: that it encourages fear of the unknown thereby instilling a system of control, and perpetuates its own existence by providing conditional charity. 

Yes kids, a church gathering was an odd place for me to be.

I took advantage of the food and grabbed a few hot dogs, coleslaw, and cokes. "It was nice to eat warm food again as I mingled around trying to get a better gauge on this odd group of people. They seemed nice, polite, and very respectful but my initial fears were legit: that this little Christian biker mob was going to take turns violating me with their engorged personal testimonies in hopes one would inseminate me with Jesus. A few did mention their faith, but none tried to explore my spiritual leanings. Rest assured though, I was waiting for it, and plotting how to handle it if and when it came up.

The characters at this gathering made this the most interesting collection of people I have seen at any church. (Not that I've seen all that many.) There were reformed bikers, recent parolees, recovering addicts, teenagers, young children, and ordinary people. "Like any respectable cult!", I said to myself. All interacting normally and talking about Jesus. There was an inordinate amount of “Amen’s” and “Praise God’s”, even for the setting. Several of them invited me to come to the service Sunday morning, and I replied that I just might if I was still (stuck) in town.

I also noticed something that astonished me considering the diversity: more blatant racism. Remember Titus & Stephen? Professing their belief in the word of God, but screaming, “take that nigger to jail!”  in the next sentence? There was some of that, though not as extreme, and I slowly realized that everyone there was white. There were no hispanics nor blacks despite the high percentage in the area. Several in the congregation gave no thought to expressing their negative opinions of minorities. The religious hypocrisy was staggering in its irony.

We had arrived toward the end of the BBQ, so I helped tear down and prepared to leave. I then learned that there was another gathering that night, up the road in Randleman, and they invited me to stop in if I got up that way. I had become very interested in this little group. I wanted to see more to learn how they reconciled their racism and xenophobia with Jesus! Plus, the idea of more free food sounded good and I still hoped I would snag a significant ride.

I was getting ready to hike off when Pat, the Asheboro pastor, offered me a ride a ways up 220 toward Randleman. I rode in the back of his pickup until he dropped me off on Old 220, which was fine with me. I was probably 7-9 miles further north, closer to Randleman, and finally out of Asheboro. 

Here, I got the first sales pitch. He asked me where I “stood with Jesus”. Not wanting to engage in a Holy War in a gas station parking lot, yet feeling confidently combative enough to serve notice that I was not a potential ‘stray sheep’, I told him that we “define things much differently, have different views, but are on the same team.” 

I could see the wheels of religious intolerance whirling. He was not going to be content with anything except, “I’ve accepted Jesus as my personal Savior!” I managed to short-circuit the forthcoming sermon by simply saying I did not want to discuss theological philosophy with a pastor, but that I would try to get into Randleman later that evening where we could chat. That did not satisfy him. But, what could he do? He gave me directions, offered me money (which I declined) and we parted ways.

“What an interesting afternoon!” I thought as I walked into the gas station to ask for water (nope!) and get some cheapo cigarettes. I took a quick hose shower to cool off and prepared for the hike to Randleman. 

It was now about 5:30 and, while the sun was dropping, it was still in the muggy upper 80’s. I started north down Old 220 thinking I was in another town I had missed on the map. I was frustrated to learn that I was not even out of Asheboro! This was NORTH Asheboro! This befuddled me because now I had no gauge as to how far it was to Randleman. It could be as close as seven or as far as 15-20 miles. 

No. It never occurred to me to just stop to ask. 

The walk was sweatily exhilarating! I stopped regularly to rest, drink lots of water, and just watch the world around me. “This is SO much better than sitting by the highway!”, I thought to myself. I saw a water tower in the distance after walking a couple of miles but was not sure if it belonged to Randleman or “Way North Asheboro”! I held my hopes in check until getting close enough to read it an hour or two later: it was indeed Randleman.

There was a Dollar Store and Goodwill at a strip mall on the south end of town. I was getting pretty tired after walking close to 8-miles, plus my soft feet were blistering, so I stopped at Goodwill and occupied their bench contemplating the worthwhileness of continuing on to the church. Here I met a couple of very nice women, who took pity on me and my piss- warm water with ice-water from the employee lounge. They also warned me not to drink the water in Randleman; “something about the pipes has been making people sick”. They said Randleman’s ‘downtown’ was only another mile, so on I went keeping an eye out for places to camp in case Pat's directions were inaccurate: “Go to the fourth light, and, well… you’ll see where it is.” 

The fourth light came; I saw where it was. I was also glad to see that “HIS Place” was by an intersection of a road leading to US-220 where there was bound to be an on-ramp for camping.

"HIS Place"

It was still before 9 as I joyfully bounded inside knowing there was food to be had. I saw several familiar, smiling faces all warmly welcoming me and asking if I had walked from Asheboro. 

This group had a different feel than Asheboro's. More families. More couples. More cheerful. Fewer bikers. Maybe they had partaken in the wine before I had gotten there? Or, perhaps it was the fact that I had been walking that put me in better spirits. I'll let you decide, but regardless: I was smitten with Randleman. I mingled for a bit before helping myself to hamburgers and fries—inhaling them after walking off the hot dogs several miles back. As I was eating, a gentleman who looked to be about 60 came over to chat. 

Will wass originally from Michigan and had traveled the country the same ways I was. Will had walked and hitchhiked, but said, regretfully, that he never had the nerve to hop a train. He was one of the few people I had met here who were not convinced that everyone in the world was a murderer-in-waiting. He was also (coincidentally?) one of the few that had gotten out there to see it for himself. I wanted to chat more with him, but the pastor had interrupted the band to remind everyone that they were still in church, and that they should probably do some churchin’.

Shit.

I really did not want to sit through this!

But, I settled in out of respect for the fact that they had welcomed me in and given me food. Twice. The least I could do was listen to what he had to say in hopes of maybe learning what bound this unique, diverse group together.

The pastor was a rough looking leather-clad biker type who clearly had not always ‘turned the other cheek’. And, looked like he could still “open the can” if needed. A regret I have is that I can't remember his name. Therefore, for the sake of the story I hereby dub him “Snake”. Pastor Snake. Nice.

Snake had an oratory gift and it was immediately apparent that this was not going to be the typical snoozer sermon. He began by criticizing “most Christians”. He condemned one of the things that irritate me most: loaded charity. Offering help only out of self-preservation & interest. Either as part of the Crusade or, as it pertains to my longstanding annoyance: because it will increase their standing with God! He verbalized it perfectly, bluntly, and to my amazement, with refreshingly appropriate anger! He pointed out that charity borne from self-interest is not charity at all; it is closer to a business arrangement: “I will help you only if it helps me!” To me, this has always stunk of the height of religious arrogance, hypocrisy, and deceit. Yet, not it’s only example.

Snake’s sermon then went on to topics that astounded and tingled my sense of synchronicity. He began to speak about several things I have been writing about since Ft. Morgan, and the things that Chris and I spent hours discussing in Denver. The “Splinter in the Mind”. Synchronicity. Self- doubt. And, amazingly enough, ignoring the institutionally-implanted idea that your life is expected to follow the course laid out for you by society. 

All of this? 

In church? 

Are you kidding?

It occurred to me that the excuse I had offered Pat in Asheboro, that “we define things differently”, may have been closer to truth than I had thought. Snake uses the term “Calling” for what I term, from the Bhagavad Gita (and The Moody Blues!) “The Voice”. He seems to believe, as do I, that everyone has this voice somewhere, but not everyone hears, or listens, to it. I have termed that being “tuned in”. The catalyst that enables most of us to “tune in” is that “Splinter in the Mind” that just will not go away, forcing us to listen to that "Voice"; the tuning process.

He also dove into one of my themes: self-doubt. He took an angle on this that, while a bit dogmatic for me, I was able to fit in to my own experience. According to Snake, if you are following a “calling” and are experiencing crippling self-doubt, it is "Satan" striving to knock you off course. He went on to offer that it is arrogant to believe that your own feelings of personal doubt in any way supersede "God's Purpose for You"; that if you’re following God’s Calling there is no way doubt should ever be a factor; God would never put you on a path you cannot complete. In Snake's eyes, believing that intellect (logic) and emotion are more accurate or reliable barometers than "the calling" is absurd. In fact, it's egocentric arrogance.

He slightly lost me with his Satan reference. Nevertheless, is it a stretch to make the connection that, usually, self-doubt is NOT something that originates within? Is not self-doubt, and by extension fear, usually the voice of society, 'education', indoctrination, a critical parent, teacher, or friends? Or, even your own? In my experience: absolutely. How often can you really trace the nexus of fear and doubt back to something that authentically originates within? Not often, provided you have the courage to dig deep enough. Careful! That will bake your noodle if you let it.

One point where Snake and I have diverging views, as I do with most theologians and 12-steppers, is the view that people should NOT take responsibility for, and trust, themselves. Snake believes that having faith in yourself is folly, when all you have to trust in is God!

Horseshit.

This thinking blew me out of AA (back in the day) because it prevents people from taking responsibility and control of their own lives. “I’m powerless! Help me!” “If I’m bad it must be Satan! If I’m good it must be God!” Externalizing both the good and bad in humanity, and ourselves. Suggesting that people are puppets simply here to have our "strings pulled" is a convenient thought to instill if you wish to eliminate critical thought and individuality. It collectively stunts intellectual (and spiritual) growth. It also eliminates the idea that each person is capable of not just critical, but original thought AND action; that we are capable of more than just having other people’s ideas and doctrine spray painted on our mind’s wall. When they mess up and come up with something successfully innovative, "God spoke to him!" If it fails? Gotta be that pesky Satan again!

I've said this before, but this is another of my major irritants: people assuming they are “educated” or “witty” because they can parrot someone else's material, but vapor locking when they are challenged to explain it or add something of their own in their own words. Looking at you, Moonbeam.

Externalization forces people’s ideas to be formed primarily by the status quo rather than teaching us to formulate our own as we go. Original ideas that are developed primarily independent of the standard,  failed, intellectual fare, then seeking out the thinkers, philosophers-- even religions-- that suit our developing, distinct appetites. 

Reading is great. Thinking is better. 

Combining both (not in that order) to develop your own, original, philosophy is best. Blaze your own trail if you must; that is the essence of individualism.

Yet, in an odd way Snake also challenged each of these parishioners to challenge the status quo as it pertains to social expectations, saying that The Machine will indeed try to stop you from following your “calling”; silence the “voice”. Did he mean, by verbal connect-the-dots, that The Machine is Satan? There are examples of this sabotage everywhere; some are institutional and some a bit more subtle. I call it the “Ministry of Standards & Practices”. Maybe I'll post that rant here. Someday.

Finally, and most interestingly to me, were his thoughts on Synchronicity. He described it as “God sending angels out ahead of you to prepare the path", as long as you are on the prescribed trail. If you are following your calling you will not starve. Snake and I-–and many others—are in complete agreement on this, and as far as I can tell, the ‘nuts & bolts’ and the ‘how’ are irrelevant. He takes the same viewpoint on adversity met along the path as many others have: obstacles to be overcome and challenges which strengthen and teach us. For people on my end of the metaphysical spectrum: "experiences". Life to be lived. Easy to talk about; hard to practice.

Now, I have no opinion on the existence of angels! However, I have experienced these synchronistic things repeatedly; so have Chris and innumerable others. Those who tell logic and the accepted “method” to go to Hell, and just ‘do it’. We quickly discovered that things just ‘happen’ at just the right times and in the just right way--even if we cannot see it immediately. This is Synchronicity. It exists, even if I cannot explain how or why! I can also tell you, and Chris and others will back this up, that you cannot simply lean and rely on it!

You will not become Synchronicity’s Welfare Mother. Or, turn Karma or the Universe into your bitch. (That expanded theme would return, in force, a year later.) 

You have to meet it at least half way. If you believe that sitting in your house, waiting for Leonard Cohen’s "Miracle to Come" is going to trigger Enlightenment and put you on that path, take it from me: you will wake up one day wondering how Pink Floyd’s “ten years got behind you” and asking why “no one told you when to run.” “You missed the starting gun” because WE are the ones who fire it. Or, you will find yourself stuck on the proverbial (or real!) lonely exit ramp. Trust me!

This was a powerfully unconventional 45-minute sermon, and lest ye be worried, I have not been converted. The sermon left me, despite the volumes written above, more convinced and certain about my previous stance on religion. What disturbs me is that I had missed these parallel ideas out of ignorance. Ignorance about the specifics in the Bible; which I have avoided like Herpes. The ideas appeal to me; made me realize that on some level we are all speaking the same but differently-coded language.

The final stroke of lightning came shortly after Snake’s sermon when Will and I resumed our conversation. I felt comfortable enough with him to divulge a bit more about my ideas and experience and, of course, he repeated Pat’s question about where I “stood with Jesus”. I told him the same thing, that we are on the same team but define and view things much differently. 

To my astonishment, rather than try to argue, or save me, I caught him slyly smiling and nodding his head. “What?!? Are you actually agreeing with me?” He knew exactly what I was getting at and, rather than argue for me to ‘get on board’, he continued asking about the trip and how I had gotten to be in Randleman. He asked about what triggered my traveling in the first place and when I used the “Splinter in the Mind” phrase, and quickly encapsulated the last four years, he looked astounded. He was convinced that I was ‘called’. If by “called” he meant that I couldn’t help what I was doing and that I was simply following my own steps toward singularity in mind, body, and ‘soul’, then yes, I agreed: I was called. 

I was NOT however acknowledging anything beyond that. I would offer that I had seen and experienced many things, had compared my experiences with those of others to be sure that I was not nuts (self-doubt), had challenged my own ideas whenever I could and, instead of coming out dejected and beaten, my ideas have only expanded. They've found new avenues to travel and expand themselves. Ideas like an appreciation for the ideas behind, but institutional disgust for, religion.

Then Will pointed out something that stunned me in my ignorance. He just smiled and said, “Todd, do you realize Jesus Christ was NOT religious? He despised organized religion! He called them “fornicators” because they were *whispering* screwing the word of God!” Screwing, manipulating, and bastardizing truth for profit, control, and power. Of course, I did NOT know that. But, that made perfect sense. I would expect Jesus to despise organized religion, or else I'd discount everything he had to say! 

I am now rather interested in this aspect of Christ. How much and why, exactly, did he despise organized religion? And, why is that so conveniently ignored? Or, should I get out more?! 

I then remembered my Muslim ride, “Z”, telling me that one of the four lines attributed to Mohammad in the Koran is something akin to “live your life as a traveler”. This piqued my interest in the fact that Christ, Mohammad, and Buddha all have ‘wandering’ as a theme.

Despite this experience, it is obvious to me that hypocrisy remains deeply entrenched throughout organized religion. The fact that they use "God" as a weapon to control thought and action while instilling, and then manipulating, fear is unavoidable fact. And so are the obscene, tax-free profits many evangelicals pull in.

“God’s watching you, keeping score!” “Do what we say, or you’re going to HELL! By the way, my flock, God spoke to me and told me to provide bigger tits for Tammey Faye. Pony Up, and let's buy bigger boobs! For JESUS!”

Further, take a gander at Focus on the Family or any of the other douchbags blaming Katrina on gays, or whatever group they hate this week, just so you will vote Republican! Many people are taking that gander. Religion is experiencing a Vietnam-like recruiting crisis with more and more choosing "Spiritual But Not Religious" as their denomination.  

When it comes to a ‘relationship with God’, I like Ramtha’s analogy at the end of “What the Bleep Do We Know?” (paraphrase): "to think that one little speck in some remote corner, of a remote galaxy, in a remote corner of infinity, could do something that offends God? THAT is the height of human arrogance." I suspect that there are many more, and we probably make up the real "silent majority."

Will offered to let me help him on a roofing job the following week and when he learned about my radio experience, almost shrieked with joy. He is organizing a “Christian Woodstock” in North Carolina and needs help getting the stream online. Ultimately, I turned down the roofing job offer but said I would definitely consider returning to help with the show. And meant it.

I took a picture of some of those still left at HIS Place and as I rode out of town toward US-220 with Will, the intellectual enormity had yet to settle about what I had just experienced. There was intensity to be sure, but the thoughts and ideas were no more than implants on that Saturday night. It would take almost two weeks to processed them properly, if only partially. (Thus the delay!)

Will dropped me at the ramp to 220 again. I was again unmotivated to walk, even after everything that had happened; choosing to simply revert to habit! The night however was NOT quite over. But, since I am over 4,600 pre-edited words already, you will have to wait for this little Dukes of Hazard scene. 

4,600 is about the length of Obama’s acceptance speech, so kudos if you have made it all the way through; writing it was quite an intense non-stop 6 1/2 hours!




My hands hurt.